by Tom Wilson
They were dropped two minutes from their house, and as they approached, Lynn ran to meet them. They got into the house safe, where the radio in the kitchen was reporting on the conflict at the bridge. Lynn brought them in and yelled, “Listen, listen!” She turned up the volume, and just then our father, Louis Beauvais, ran up to the kitchen window and said, “They’re firing, they’re firing on them!” The SQ had lost it.
The impact of the Oka Crisis lived with Logan long after that summer. Lynn told me that they were in a Chateauguay IGA a couple years later, and Logan was sitting in the front of the cart, dangling his legs. Suddenly, he looked around and began yelling out to the people in the store, “Blockade, blockade! Nobody can pass. Blockade, blockade!” Then he broke down crying. My family were trying to get by, trying to keep their heads down. They were at a disadvantage and had become the enemy whether they were women or children. The stares were still cast and the tension was still thick in the air. The entire community suffered, and even though the roads were getting patched up and the tanks had gone home, the community remained broken for a long time. It was a story I didn’t know until the community became mine.
My cousin Carol has arranged for my first visit with Sonny Lazare, and she drives Madeline, Thompson and me the few winding blocks from Lynn’s house over to his. Carol drives a huge Cadillac and needs cushions on the driver’s seat to see over the steering wheel. Meeting Sonny is one of the reasons I’ve made the trip back to Kahnawake. It’s part of the re-entry. Like finding the Manger or the Titanic or the Ark. My greatest mystery solved, and the evidence right here in front of me. He lives alone now in the house he bought off Joe Delille. Sonny got the house and the adjoining pool hall, settled into the corner lot, ran the business and never left. When I say “alone,” I sure don’t mean lonely. Sonny has eight kids, 120 grandchildren and great-grandchildren and counting. The house is always busy, and the daughters in particular look out for their father around the clock. His house is the family place.
I don’t know if Sonny ever saw me as a little boy. I don’t imagine he did. I used to spend Christmases at John Lazare’s house, a few blocks away from Sonny’s, but I was never allowed off the property in case someone recognized me. I was just another big-headed boy, but in Kahnawake I was suspect, a pale Mohawk stranger that my family feared would start talk around town.
Sonny’s front door is the end of my long walk home. A walk I didn’t know I was going to be making. I never knew where I belonged, and as a result I went through life with a question mark above my head. When you’re not sure who you are or where you came from, life is a little more difficult. You’re aware of everyone around you. You’re always the outsider. You keep your fists clenched in your pockets in case the world challenges you or looks at you the wrong way.
The unknown led me down twisted paths, and I found plenty of trouble there. I’d lie awake wondering, and then feel guilty for wondering. I was constantly spinning, looking for ways to calm myself, to slow myself down, always searching for answers that were not out there. I looked for ways to prove I was alive, that I was real, that I belonged. I used sex to be in the here and now, and booze and drugs to wipe everything out again. It was a deadly circle of abuse that I kept going for decades. But I didn’t have to be on this crooked path. It could have been easier.
I thought about all of this as I knocked on Sonny Lazare’s door for the first time. Standing there at the door, I pictured Bunny and George and 162 East 36th Street and Janie and the Hamilton streets I grew up on and all my French and Irish relatives who knew my story and never told me. But everything, the thoughts and regrets and questions about life and who I was, disappear into smoke as the door opens and my cousin Sharon appears in the doorway, smiling. Behind her is Sonny, sitting in his easy chair. He pulls himself out of his chair, tears in his eyes, arms outstretched. I’ve never had this kind of welcome from a family member before. “You were supposed to be raised here where you belong. You are a Mohawk.”
I am the son he was not allowed. He accepts what happened, but still hints that I was taken from him. I was supposed to be his. He was well on his way to filling his house with kids, and his wife, Hazel, agreed that they would raise me. Then she found out that she too was pregnant, with my cousin Sharon, and John Lazare made his trip to scoop me up into his back seat and take me home, but instead came back to Kahnawake empty handed. Bunny and George made a home for me in Hamilton, and that was that.
He’s waited fifty-six years for this moment and is an old man now. So am I. But I’m here. I’m scared and scarred but I’ve survived. I’m alive and lucky as hell.
A FIGHTING CHANCE
A few years ago Janie sent several Tupperware storage containers over to my house with my housekeeper, who I also hire to keep Janie’s apartment in order for her. She called to tell me they were coming and that they were full of Bunny and George’s old belongings. Things from a lifetime ago. Things they had held on to until the end. I sometimes hate those kinds of things, the ones that meant everything to the departed but nothing in the land of the living. In antique stores and flea markets, I’m always saddened to find the cherished possessions of an old woman—a picture of her dog, salt and pepper shakers, dishes, crafts—a constellation of lost memories thrown onto a table for people to rummage through. I’m sensitive about this shit, and so until very recently I had been unable to lift the lid off the containers full of Bunny and George, or maybe I just knew that I was inside there too.
I was ready. I reached inside one container and found George’s Air Force medals and his formal dress uniform. Fifty-two years before, I’d bundled this stuff up and brought it to my grade one class bursting with pride to show off my war hero’s honours. I reached into another and found Bunny’s old coin collection. I remembered her sorting through these coins in the evenings, after she’d finished the dishes, at the kitchen table back on 36th Street. She’d check the dates, record the details of each coin on a small cardboard frame and then place the coin at the frame’s centre and staple it into its presentable resting place. I held one tight in my fist trying to feel Bunny somewhere inside there.
As I went through the containers marked Bunny and George my breath became heavy and I was hit by the same claustrophobic feeling that came over me when Bunny died. I pictured myself in one of those old black-and-white movies. I was the boxer hitting the mat after the knockout punch, the air temporarily drained out of him. The cards of my life shuffled into order and exposed right there in front of me. I closed my eyes as my mind raced through memories. I thought about the day Thompson was born. How amazed I was with every bit of him. How scared I was for Madeline. How protective I felt of her. I remembered we were driving down King Street into Westdale heading back to the McMaster University hospital. Back to Sandy and the new baby. I looked down at Madeline playing in the front seat with a Barbie I had just bought her. We were alive and electric and we were alone in the world together at that moment. She looked up at me smiling. I was a father whole, connected. I remember all this like it happened twenty minutes ago. Greg Keelor came on the radio singing “Lost Together,” and I broke. I knew how deeply and completely my kids were inside me and think that’s the feeling I missed from Bunny and George. That’s what I missed from Janie. But I had it all delivered to me in kings and aces with my own kids.
I’ve lived in uncertainty most of my life. Running from myself. Running from Bunny and George who gave me everything they had but in the end it wasn’t enough and it wasn’t their fault. Then my happiest childhood memories pushed themselves forward. I remembered being danced around the living room in Bunny and George’s arms to “Till We Meet Again” at the end of Don Messer’s Jubilee, and running back and forth in my playpen in the front foyer of the house while Bunny cooked something up on the stove and George sat at at the kitchen table. I thought about how George, even though he was blind, would come to my hockey games at Inch Park and stand in the corner holding Bunny’s arm, smoking Export Plains and listening to
the skates and sticks of the peewees and the other parents screaming and cheering their kids on, and how I would skate by that corner and say, “Hi, Dad, it’s me,” so he knew it was my shift. That one memory flash, that one card flipping through the deck, was what opened my heart to Bunny and George. Broke it wide open, in fact. They gave me a fighting chance and you can’t ask for more than that. The cards flipped by, and I felt like I knew everything there was to know, and I felt like I knew nothing.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Oh the love…
That I’ve received.
It’s come to me like arrows shot far and wide from hearts vast with love. I’m like the guy riding into town half dead, dirty, with feathers and handfuls of arrows sticking out of my hat. I’ve been taken in by lovers who have brought me back to life.
My reasons to be thankful come and go from Hamilton to Halifax to Toronto to Limerick and back. From David Wiffen to Frankie Venom to Miles Davis, the Cowboy Junkies, Charles Bukowski, Michael Ondaatje and Henry Miller. The Wizard Oz and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.
I’ve been shaped by beautiful minds.
I’ve been inspired and I’ve written countless songs just by tuning in and listening to Bob Dylan singing “Things Have Changed” or Tom Waits “Goin’ Out West.” Songs that dragged out the poet in me and opened the doors of possibility.
Muddy Waters’ Folk Singer and Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue are still the greatest recordings of all time.
The life I’ve lived seems so small and fast so far but in reality what I’ve been given from family and friends, fellow artists and associates is so great and has propped me up and kept me going through the years and the tears, the questions and faith and vomit and gasoline.
I thank them for this opportunity. I came from nowhere and I’ll go back there one day.
This book is for my family.
Madeline and Thompson. I’m so proud, so thankful, to have you guys in my life every day. You are my heart. You’ve made me work hard to be a better man.
Janie, Bunny and George, these people have given me a fighting chance, truly.
My hometown Hamilton, Ontario, has inspired me from the moment it clocked me in the jaw. I keep writing about Hamilton and Hamilton keeps ignoring my words. It’s a tough audience and a mean-spirited critic that constantly sends me out to the woodshed where I dust myself off and try again to get it right.
Madeline and Thompson’s mother, Sandy, taught me what a family is. She tried her best with me but in the end I was just a hard dog to keep on the porch. We go through periods of silence and separation but we always come back to the dinner table with the people we made and love.
My grandsons Hawksley and Levon. You guys are still young and are already challenging the world around you. I hope I’m still here thirty years from now to see the beautiful wild men I know you’ll become. And hey, Jesse Dore, you are an inspiring family man. Thanks for that, buddy.
My beautiful family in Kahnawake. Lynn and Tracy, thank you for opening the door for me.
I met Margot Burnell the week I started writing this book. She made falling in love so easy and she made it easy for me to fall in love with her. Her pure and honest heart has guided me through what I consider dangerous doorways and I’ve done it without fear, maybe for the first time in my life. Forward we go, Margot.
Ray Farrugia is my oldest and closest friend, the godfather to my children and my musical partner for the last thirty-five years. He’s seen me through some of my darkest hours and celebrated and cheered me on throughout my life. I could never imagine going through this without you, Ray. Same with Colin Cripps. There’s a complicated guy who leads with his heart every time, and lucky for me, he’s taken the lead for me many times.
Dave Bidini called me one day and asked me if I’d ever thought about writing a book. I think I said, “Fuck no. That sounds like too much work.” Thanks, Dave, for dragging me off the elevator and into the boardroom at Doubleday/Penguin Random House.
Scott Sellers for his positive and upbeat energy.
Martha Kanya-Forstner edited this book. That is of course too simple a description of her involvement. Martha became my trusted confidante who kept my heart on the pages and the story speeding straight down the road. Martha, you are a masterful creative partner and a loving friend. Thanks for the ride. And thanks too to Ward Hawkes.
I spent hours upon hours lying in bed with Cathy Jones entertaining her with stories about my childhood. She would shake the bedroom walls with laughter. She was always a fantastic audience for me and I indulged myself in her unguarded responses. Shocked or near tears, she helped me to start believing in who I really am. Cathy was stunned by my unconventional upbringing and was the first person to tell me that I should write a book or a movie or something, anything.
My friend, writer Ryan Knighton searched me out on the streets of East Vancouver after a show. He was the first fan to tell me I should write down some of my stories and stage banter. He started the wheels turning. He handed me his book Cockeyed and it further inspired me and made the task of writing easier to accept.
My agent, Jack Ross, told me to write a book three years ago. Jack was blunt, unemotional when he said told me this but he certainly tossed me on the road I find myself travelling today.
Aaron Goldstein patiently listened to my stories on stage for the last nine years and inspired me to keep on talking and talking and talking.
My long-suffering manager, Allen Moy, and Madeline Wilson took me out to dinner three years ago and cornered me with the idea of writing a book. Allen always believed in me and I thank him for never falling off the bull when it came to me. A week after our dinner, out of nowhere Doubleday called me into a meeting to discuss the possibility of having me as one of their authors. That’s some fantastic mojo we put out into the universe that night, Allen and Mad.
The people who Hanna Clayton, Jayne Scala, Grace and Aaron Goldstein sat with me in my office and lovingly listened to me talk and transcribed my ideas.
Thanks to: Ken Peters, Mark Stringer, Larry Myers, Mark Rogers, the late Doug Crawford, the late Scott Pollock, Stewart Pollock, Nina Honda, Dave Cross, the Walker family of East 36th Street, the East Mountain, Andrea Ramalo, Jesse O’Brian, Mimi Shaw, Ed Clayton, Edward Shaw, Penny Shaw, Grace Williams, Ann Marie Rousseau, Abby Kanak, Steve McDuffee, Ralph Nicole, Alison Liss, Sherelle Wilsack, Lisa Wilsack, Eddie Kopas, Brent Titcomb and his fantastic four family, Bruce Cameron, Bill Powell, Jason Avery, Carl Keesee, Greg Cannon, Dave Rave, Tim Gibbons, Rick Andrew, Mike Roth, Yvonne Matsell, Barb Sedun, Gary Furniss, Dave Quilico, Mishelle Pack, Janet Baker, Rick Camilleri, Alison Brock, Mary Mill, Don Oates, Sandy Power, Malcolm Burn, Denise Donlon, Murray McLauchlan, Ralph James, Stefanie Purificati, Bob Lanois, Jocelyne Lanois, Dan Lanois, Dennis Drere, Bob Nickling, Tracey Weber, Ken Ashcroft, Bernie Finklestein, Colin Linden, Janice Powers, Stephen Fearing, John and Denise Dymond, Gary Craig, Michael Timmins, Betty and Jim Fyshe, Suzy Miller, Chris Mak, Teenage Head, the spirit of Frankie Venom, Celia Arruda, Michael Merryman Murphy, Russell Wilson, Charlie Ferguson, Ted Hoyle and the ever tenacious spirit of the great Dan Achen.
I have unchained all the prisoners from my basement and freed the ghosts from my attic.
I was the guy who ended up holding the keys to their freedom.
It was me who let them out.
It’s a job that no one else could do and one that comes with great consequence because those ghosts and prisoners are standing around me now all day, all night long.
I told my truth the way I heard it and the way I remembered it and that’s all I have.
Everything else is bullshit.
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